by Alan Britt
I unfold the wrappings and lick
some of the rhubarb from the tin foil.
Beside me in the car, I have hedge
clippers, a saw, and an electric trimmer
with a long thin blade.
Down the street I watch two men
unload their heave equipment
from a blue truck. They have lawn
mowers, rakes, shovels, electric saws,
and assorted other tools. In a moment
I wonder what I am doing here, in
this car seated next to a pair of ancient
paint spattered hedge clippers with
wobbly handles? But the rhubarb
from the foil; how good it is.
Rhubarb on this hot summer day.
Alan Britt’s poems in this issue are from a manuscript he is putting together for his MA at John Hopkins. A poem of his will appear in the For Neruda/For Chile anthology. (Spring 1975)